T O U R
by Queen of Pascalities
Summary: Those boys put the fun in dysfunctional and the moron in oxymoron. SasuSaku.
1. I

_**A/N : **__Happy Halloween everyone! Eat tons of candy (I know I will) and then write fanfiction while on a sugar high (I KNOW I WILL). _

_I'm dressing up as a zombie British dude from the 1800s and spending my evening scaring little children who want to steal my candy. Can't wait!__ What costumes are you guys wearing?_

_Anyway, __here is what (I hope) you've all been waiting for (YOU BETTER LIKE IT, BECAUSE I'M MISSING OTAKUTHON TO WRITE THIS). _

_Enjoy!_

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**The Tour**

_by Queen of Pascalities_

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**I.**

Of course. It couldn't be this easy.

I couldn't be just leaving everything behind – my parents, my studies, my (shitty, crappy, stinky) job – and not have consequences after.

It's not that I didn't expect being called by my parents, worried sick, demanding to know of my whereabouts. It's not that I didn't expect them my mum to cry, repeating "Come home, honey, please come home" over and over again. It's not that I didn't expect my dad to order me to appear on our – well, my former – doorstep before noon or there would be "serious punishment" – probably meaning I'd be grounded for the whole summer again. It's not that I didn't expect that.

I just didn't want to think about it. Problems always seem to be solved when you ignore them.

But, of course, I can't ignore this one problem anymore. My only chance of getting out of this predicament unharmed is to confront it carefully, to use the right words and to sound very calm – and not nervous and scared and excited like I am right now.

"I'm with the boys," I said, my voice as poised as I could muster.

Five words into confronting my problem carefully and I've already made the worst mistake I could possibly make.

I said "boys".

The next three minutes of this phone call consist mainly of my father screaming that more than one boy has had his way with me, while my mother's crying even harder because her little girl is off God knows where with individuals who happen to have things dangling between their legs, and is probably being abused and forced into doing things she doesn't want to do – like telling her poor, unaware parents that she's fine.

They tend to overreact, sometimes. My parents are very intense people.

I wait until they're done destroying my tympanums and then calmly – well, as much as I can – proceed on to explaining what I meant by "I'm with the boys".

"Oh, my God, _no!_" Yeah. Calm. "You've got it all wrong! Don't you remember, the band that invited me to sing in their gig last summer?"

Of course, they don't remember, be it either because they don't pay much attention to what I tell them or because they don't want me to be right about something like this – because I'm being raped _senseless_ right now, aren't I?

"Anyway, I'm with them." Way to be reassuring, Sakura. "I'm perfectly safe, don't worry."

"No, Sakura," my mom bawls. "You're not safe."

And, of course, I have to get angry because damn, I _am_ seventeen. I'm hormonal, I'm impulsive, very jumpy – for some reason – and responsible enough to know when I'm safe or not. Besides, defying them was easy enough last night, I shouldn't have any trouble doing it again.

"You don't know that, mum," I say dryly. "How can you just assume that I'm not safe? Is it because I'm not home, clinging to your skirts and following your every move?"

"I-…"

"I'm not two anymore, mum." I'm downright rude, now. "I can take care of myself. I don't need you anymore." God, why am I saying that? I'm just hurting her more.

"Sakura, don't speak to your mother like that," my dad says, joining in on the fun.

"I will when you stop ordering me around." Stop, moronic idiot, you're making things worse. "I'm not going home."

"Yes, you are! You'll be here before noon or I'm going to get you myself," he repeats.

"You and I both know I won't be there at noon."

It does make sense, because not only is the next flight home in three hours, it's also six hours long. Which would get me home right around two in the afternoon.

"That's it. I'm going to get you." He's angry too, I can tell. It doesn't phase me one bit.

"Well, come on, then, dad. I'll be miles away when you arrive."

Which is also true because, well, I'm standing on American soil – I resist an urge to squeal – and the boys and I are leaving for Canada in a few minutes. Plus, he doesn't know where I am.

There's a silence on the other end of the line. I know he's speechless. Why wouldn't he be? I've never been rebellious and my teenage crisis was just as short-lived as it is long gone. My parents clearly didn't see this coming – to be quite honest, neither did I – and now they don't know how to react.

Finally, my dad speaks.

"We'll block your passeport."

His words are fateful, solemn, like an announcement from a king. He sounds calm, but I know he's anything but. I'm perfectly aware that anger is making his blood boil and that the slightest rude comment on my part will make him explode. Suddenly, all my boldness deflates.

This is absurd. I shouldn't be fighting with my parents. I won't see them – hopefully – for the next twelve months. I don't want my last memory of them before the tour to be a bad one.

"Mum, dad…" I sigh. "I'm sorry. Don't… Don't be angry, please. I didn't mean what I said. It's just…"

I can't seem to find the right words. Speeches never really were my forte, and it sure as hell is showing now.

"This… This is really important to me. I've been waiting for an opportunity like this for as long as I can remember. This tour-…"

"A tour!?" My mum cuts in, startled. "You're going on a tour? Is that what it is, with this… This band you were with last night?" Disdain is still clear in her voice.

"Yes. That band," I answer calmly. "I'm with them."

"Alone?"

"No! Erm, no, mum. They have adults accompanying them, you know, tour manager, technicians, bus driver-…"

"There's a bus driver?"

"I'd really wish you'd stop cutting me, mum." I don't know how long I can keep the calm façade up.

"Oh, right. Sorry, darling."

"Anyway, _yes_, there's a bus driver. We'll need to sleep sometime, mum."

"Where?"

"On the bus? In bunk beds? Mum, you didn't really think they were touring around in a Winnebago, did you?"

"Erm, well-…"

"The point is, you really have nothing to worry about. I'm perfectly safe. I promise I'll call you as many times as I can."

"Well, it's not like we hadn't expected this," my dad says, after being silent for a few minutes. I'm confused.

"What do you mean?"

"We knew we'd have to let you go sometimes. Only, you never showed any signs of wanting to leave. We just didn't think it would happen so quickly and at such extremes."

There was a pause.

". . . Where are you, anyway?"

Should I tell them? I know they'll go hysterical on me again if I do. Then again, it'll probably be worse if they find out I lied.

"I'm, er… I'm in Los Angeles."

. . .

For a few seconds, I can't hear anything. Maybe they're just preparing their synchronised spaz attack. I should probably lean the phone away from my ear, just in case they start screaming again-

"_We apologize for the inconvenience, but the plan you are currently using for your phone device has reached its fund limit. If you wish to purchase more minutes, go to your local-…_"

I don't let her finish. A high, screeching sound come out of my throat as I shut the cellphone closed and furiously throw back in my bad, which has been lying at my feet for the past ten minutes or so. Talk about crap luck. I had enough minutes to pick up a fight with my parents, but not enough to make up with them. I turn around, ready to ask one of the boys to lend me their phone…

And then I freeze.

I choke back a laugh. The sight is rather comical, despite the fact that I'm thoroughly pissed off.

They're all sitting in a line on the leather seats of the waiting area, their backs to the door to the plane we're supposed to catch in a few minutes, and they're almost all staring at me as if I'd just admitted to having a foot fetish. Which I don't. Just so you know. 'Cause, well, I don't have a, er, foot fetish.

Yeah, anyway.

I say they're _almost_ all staring at me because only three of them actually are. The fourth one – and most important, if you ask me – is still fast asleep, as he was for most of the plane trip. I'm not sure he's even aware yet that I'm here. He's slouching on the back of his seat, his arms crossed, his face relaxed and – it appears to be constant with him – slightly bored. As if his dreams are as boring as the rest of his life seems to be to him.

I just hope he's not dreaming of me.

. . .

Wait…

No, that's really what I meant to say. I hope he's not having boring dreams about me.

**Ding ding diiiing.**

_All passen__gers for flight 177 to Vancouver, please report to boarding gate number four. Thank you._

My heart leaps in my chest and my blood freezes. My second flight in existence and I'm already eager to take the plane again. I could only manage to sleep one hour out of the eight it took us to get to Los Angeles, and I enjoyed myself almost as much as I did a year ago when I was on stage with the boys.

Said boys, by the way, are still staring at me. Kind of awkward, really.

"Erm… Maybe we should go," I suggested tentatively. Naruto snaps out of his trance first and gets up with a start.

"Right!" He says. "Come on, dudes. Move it."

He kicks Sasuke's shin – nooo, not his perfectly-shaped-shin-that-I've-never-seen-in-my-entire-life-but-that-I-know-I'll-love-anyway-because-Sasuke-is-just-perfect-like-that! – to wake him up and picks up his bags. Sasuke merely cracks an eye open, grunts and drags his things to the gate.

I still wonder if he's aware of my being here. Maybe not. Ooh, then I can't wait to see the look on his face. I must be somewhat of a sadist, deep down inside. Or not. Still, annoying him to no end might actually turn out fun. That is, until he falls in love with me.

With a smile and only one more thought to my parents, I pick up my bags and follow the rest of the band through the gate.

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_**A/N: **__So, what did you think? Tell me! I need feedback on this. I didn't get much on the Prom sequel, and I'm kind of wondering if it means I should stop with this idea. I don't want to, but if you guys don't like it anymore, I'll stop._

_Happy Halloween again!_

_Scaring children is what I live for. Hehe._

_~Queen of Pascalities_


	2. II

_**A/N :**__ My present for the new year._

_Hope you enjoy it. All four of you._

* * *

**T O U R**

* * *

**II.**

I hate worried eyes. I hate wary looks thrown at me, as if questioning my mental state. I hate whispers behind my back. I hate awkward silences. I hate side-glances and feigned ignorance when I turn my head. But what I incontestably hate the most is that the ones with the worried eyes and the wary looks, doing the whispers, the awkward silences, the side glances and the feigned ignorance are my current favourite people.

Out of all the uncomfortable situations I've lived – and there've been a lot of them – this one is probably the worst. I feel observed, gauged, scrutinized and judged by the three very awake musicians sitting around me on the plane that's taking us to Vancouver. I can feel their intent stares pierce through my head, as though they're trying to see what's going on inside it.

Yeah, no pressure.

I think the worst part of this is that I know why they're trying to drill through my brain with their eyes. It's that phone call. That stupid, _stupid_ phone call. They're most certainly worrying about whether my parents are going to sue them for kidnapping – ahem, yeah – me which, for all I know, they're going to do. I never got a chance to fully explain what I'm doing on the other side of the Atlantic, just as much as they never really got a chance to yell at me for being there.

About that last part, I have to admit I'm rather relieved, but I still think it would have made things better if they'd let loose every bit of hysterics they could pull out of their bodies. Just for their sake.

Well, maybe for my sake as well.

I thought I could forget about that phone call when I stepped through the gates. I couldn't have been more wrong. I've been thinking about our fight for a little over an hour and I know I'll keep thinking about it for the rest of the flight.

I'm torn between two parts of my mind. One part is ecstatic about going to Vancouver – and pretty much everywhere else in the world – to start a band's world tour with them, also with the side bonus of getting paid for singing almost every night of the next year. The other side of my mind is worried about my parents, convinced that I'm torturing them by being evasive and not entirely honest.

I ache to feel the happy side of myself over power the other, but I know I have to agree with the latter too. I can't deny that I should be heading home instead of being… well, a teenager. After all, this situation doesn't make sense. Overnight, I've gone from obedient future surgeon to daring runaway on her way to Vancouver.

**Tuut tuut tuut.**

"Gah!" I jump at the sound, violently pulled out of my internal rambling.

"_We are now starting our descent towards Vancouver International Airport,_" a flight attendant informs us through her microphone at the front of our plane compartment. "_Please fasten your seatbelts and keep them buckled until the plane has come to a complete stop on the ground._"

The large seat I'm sitting in feels more like a sofa than a seat. I shouldn't be surprised, though. The boys, although not rich enough to buy a private jet, own enough money to purchase first class tickets. The fact that they offered me one is enough to make me feel bad for their bank accounts, but two is downright plaguing my mind. I feel like a gold digger, or a greedy relative that sticks to them just to get the benefits of their money. I must repay them someday. I just won't be able to live thinking about the money they're spending for me. There's just one problem, of course.

I own not much more than eighty dollars. My parents give me an allowance for mowing in the summer and shovelling the snow in the winter. I never had a regular income, let alone a real, stable job. I fill up my bank account twice a year, on my birthday and Christmas, when my relatives invade my house and give me money as my sole present, with their idea of subtlety, whispering like spies passing on secretive information, although loud enough for everyone to hear how generous they are, and then making lame jokes about how much richer than them I'm getting.

Unfortunately, I have this money spending problem, especially when I enter a music store, where I can't control myself and have to buy everything I want that I haven't bought in a previous visit to that store. Or I just rent a lot of movies and annihilate my funds in less than three months. Thus, in the last six months of every year, I have around sixty dollars in my bank account. My current eighty is a new record for me.

I can't hope to be paid for the tour, either. I don't have a contract with any recording company and I'm here on invitation – and a little forcing on my part, I do feel bad about that – so there really shouldn't be any money getting in my pockets. It doesn't bother me that much, though. I mean, I _am_ doing something I like, and I'm with people whose company I really enjoy. I'm happy without getting paid.

It would be a plus, of course, but I'm happy without it nonethele-

CRAP.

The plane touching the ground just made me almost pee in my pants. I swear, my heart stopped working for a few seconds. I didn't realise we're already on the ground, too engrossed I've been with my inside monologue. The plane is slowing down on the lane. I look around to see if I'm the only one shaken up by the landing.

The boys must be used to it, because they're all busy doing something, like packing what they got out of their bags during the flight, or putting their shoes back on, or just looking fresh as roses and too cool to even be in first class seats. How do they do it? Does it come with being in a band? Do musicians have to take lessons just to look cool?

The planes come to a stop and a flight attendant invites us to disembark calmly and to please use Air Canada for our travel needs, thankyouverymuch. Flight attendants are way too nice to be real. Maybe they're robots.

. . .

Okay, maybe not.

I extirpate myself out of my way-too-comfortable seat and waddle down the main aisle to the door of the plane, dragging my backpack with me. My legs feel heavy and my veins tingle. I can feel the blood rush back to my feet, after being cut off for nearly two hours. The piece of gum I've been chewing on for the past two hours – to avoid tympanum explosion, or so I'm told – is now tasteless and has the consistency of a piece of fabric. Maybe I should spit it into the air hostess's face.

And then she'll break mine with her robotic fist. I probably shouldn't.

I give her a non-committal smile and follow the boys out. We walk down a hallway and through the boarding gates. I can't believe I'm walking on Canadian soil. Most of the people around me are probably Canadians, and it makes me feel weird not to know exactly who, as if they're going to pull some sort of Canadian prank on me and I want to anticipate who's going to do it.

I look around. Do Canadians have something distinctive about them? Everyone seems pretty normal to me. No one is wearing a shirt with a maple leaf on it, or a hat made out of a raccoon. No one is walking his pet beaver – although that might be because pets aren't allowed in airports unless they're in a cage. Everyone goes on about their business, not minding the five foreign youngsters that the boys and I are. People are talking, hugging, waiting for their luggage, looking at their watches and eating snacks. No one looks particularly Canadian, and I guess that's good, because then I won't look too much like I'm not from here.

"What. The. Hell. Were. You. Thinking?!" Someone says sharply somewhere behind me.

"H-hey, Yamato," I hear Naruto say awkwardly.

I turn around to see the rest of the band greeting a brown-haired man with muffled guilty grunts. The man, taller than the boys, seems to be even taller, towering over them with a gloomy face that sends shivers down my spine. The boys don't seem to have a different reaction from mine. They all take a step back and I can imagine the terrified looks on their faces.

"There is no "Hey, Yamato". You guys disappeared for two days without telling anyone!" To say he's upset would be a euphemism. "We were going mad over here! We thought you'd quit the tour!"

He has the same accent as Sasuke, only more pronounced. He rolls his r's a lot more, and some of his words are way off.

"Aw, come on, Yamato," Lee says. "You know we'd never quit without telling you."

"Wait... wouldn't we?" Naruto asks.

"Hm... No, you're right, we would, but we're not quitting, now, so it doesn't matter."

"That's right, we had to be somewhere two days ago, is all."

"Where did you have to be?" Yamato asks impatiently.

"In Chelmsford."

There's a moment of silence. Obviously, the mention of my hometown doesn't particularly please Yamato, whoever he is. His face, scary up until now, suddenly turns red, then white.

"C-Chelmsford?" He asks, sounding like he's being strangled.

"Uh huh," Naruto nods.

"W-where Neji used to live? IN _ENGLAND_!?"

I jump, startled, both because of his outburst and the fact that he said – and I hope I didn't hear wrong – Neji used to live in my hometown. My little Chelmsford, where there are only two high schools and a part of a university, where not much more than 110 000 people live, where no one famous has the slightest hope of not being mentioned.

"Yup." Both Naruto and Lee nod their heads frantically.

How in the world can Neji have lived there without my being aware of it? I lock my eyes on the back of his head. I never really paid him a lot of attention. Now that I think of it, we do have pretty much the same accent. I can't believe I didn't notice before. It's true he doesn't talk a whole bunch.

"Yeah, we had to go get something primordial to the tour," Naruto says, a grin in his voice – if that's what a grin sounds like.

"And what was-..." He raises his eyes and he sees me.

Me, so small, almost hiding behind the tall and lanky quartet, with my pink hair, the smudged remnants of my prom make-up and my not-so-awesome pyjama pants. Me, not really supposed to be here, some sort of intruder who's taking advantage of the situation. Me, British little me.

Me, the _girl_.

"Y-... You b-brought a girl back?" Yamato chokes out.

They all turn to me, ready to explain my presence, except for Sasuke, who turns more sharply, as I can see out of the corner of my eye. Of course, he never really was aware of my being here, so I don't blame him for being surprised.

"She was supposed to be here last year, but she had a conflicting schedule," Lee starts.

"Yeah, something stupid came up," Naruto adds.

"Really stupid," Lee says.

"Useless, even," Naruto continues.

"But it had to be done," Lee sighs.

"You know, this thing called high school."

"We didn't even bother with it, ourselves."

Sasuke's still looking at me.

Yamato sighs. Obviously, the boys exasperate him to no end, and it's not the first time. He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes and slumps his shoulders.

"And she's... She's here for how much time?" Yamato asks, although I'm pretty sure he doesn't truly want to know the answer.

"The whole tour, duh." Naruto says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You know how when we say someone's blood drained out of their face we don't mean it literally drained out, just that they have dread painted all over, because blood technically can't completely leave your head because it would mean your heart has stopped beating? Yeah, well this time, I swear I saw the line of colour in Yamato's face slide down his cheeks, only leaving very white skin and a blank expression. He stands there, in front of us, immobile, not one hair moving – and I suspect he's stopped breathing.

Oh wait.

Nope, his blood seems to be rushing back to his cheeks, now. Only, he's redder than before. Man, this bloke's blood system is like a tidal wave. Why is he so upset? Is it because I'm here?

Yeah, well, SCREW YOU. I deserve to be here.

Sort of.

. . .

. . .

He's turning purple.

His eyes are bulging out of his head.

_Holy shit_, there's a vein throbbing in his neck.

. . .

Maybe he's choking. In which case we should probably do something to help him breathe. Probably.

"We shou-..." I start.

"Good. I'm glad we all agree. Knew you'd take it well," Naruto cuts me, slamming his hand on Yamato's shoulder and walking past him.

"Come on," Neji says, gripping my wrist and pulling me after Naruto. I let myself be dragged away, still concerned about the obviously infuriated man seething a few feet behind me.

The other boys don't seem all that worried about Yamato. Neji, despite his hasty pace, doesn't appear to have been phased by the encounter. Naruto and Lee are merrily chatting in front of us. I turn around to see if the man is still fuming on the spot.

JESUS.

Sasuke's still looking at me.

Only, he doesn't seem shocked about my presence anymore. His face is - why, God, _why_!? – furious, rather. His glare – and _what_ a glare – would have pinned me down, because really, there is nothing worse than being glared at by the boy you like – well, more than the others – but Neji's firm grip on my arm pulls me forward and makes it rather impossible. Still, my stomach sinks down to my heels and a chill – of fear, because _hell_, what a glare – runs down my spine. That glare is my new archenemy.

Yamato stomps behind Sasuke, but I barely pay him any attention. Sasuke's eyes one me are all I can think of. My stupid brain stays stuck on it. Through security, his eyes never leave me and it makes me even more self-conscious than the security guards do.

A few minutes later, we're all outside, waiting for something – nobody even bothered to tell what exactly – and Sasuke's still staring at me. Yamato too, I think, but I'm not sure.

I plop down next to my bags, relieving my aching legs. I don't know what we're waiting for, but it sure as hell is late. The sun is hammering on my shoulders, the air is damp and I'm sweating from every pore of my skin, Sasuke and Yamato are burning holes in my head and the three others are completely oblivious. Well, Naruto and Lee are. Neji's sending me wary side glances every now and then.

I slump my shoulders. Somehow, for the past few hours, I've been under the impression that, besides dealing with my parents, everything would be easy. I really did think that I wouldn't do anything than singing on a stage and goofing around in the wings. I thought everyone would welcome me as if I'm supposed to be here. You know, genuine smiles, overused compliments and handshakes galore. Maybe even a photoshoot, for good measure. Anything, really, to make me feel like I made the right decision.

You know, maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I shouldn't have run away from home. I had a good life, back there. Sure, slightly boring at times, but I lived comfortably, my parents weren't total pricks, I had good grades in class and I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And then, stupid me, I went and threw it all away on a whim, a spur-of-the-moment decision that seemed good at the time and that doesn't anymore. Maybe I should go home. Maybe I should turn around and take the next plane back to England. It would make so much more sense than this idea of touring around the world with four boys I barely know.

Crap, my eyes are welling up.

I shut my eyelids, trying to keep my tears inside.

And I fail miserably, of course, because that never works.

Really, I thought it'd make me so happy to be away from home. I thought I'd feel liberated, as if a giant weight were taken of my shoulders. I thought I'd be continuously smiling, like the happiest imbecile on the planet.

And now, look at me. I'm crying like a baby.

Again.

Damn.

It doesn't help that I can still feel – yes, _feel_ – Sasuke and Yamato's furious gazes on me. Why are they so upset – I know, I know, the word is weak – with me, anyway? I didn't do anything wrong. I was personally invited here. Okay, it was a year ago, but I don't think a few (twelve) months changed anything. Right?

Aaah, finally, the sun just disappeared behind a cloud. There's even a momentary fresh breeze. I sniffle and wipe my eyes. There's no need to alarm the boys, it would only make them feel bad. I should probably leave now, before we leave the airport, to make things simpler. Yes. I should do that.

I force myself up on my feet, my muscles being somewhat reluctant to move, and pick up my backpack. I wipe my tears one more time then open my eyes.

WHOA.

What the f-

"Come on, Sakura-chan," Naruto calls.

Since when is there a bus in front of me?

* * *

_**A/N: **__Yeah, I'm not very proud of this one. I've been having major writer's block. I have a theory that it has something to do with school. Haven't been able to write anything good since I started back in August. Oh well. I'll do better next time. I'll try to write faster._

_I'd like to give a shoutout to __ohwhatsherface__, an author for whom I have a lot of respect. I read her story _TheCherryOnTop_ a few years back, when I was still writing my first two stories. I absolutely loved the story, I thought it was so well written. For some reason, I didn't add it to my favourites (I was probably in my "I'll bookmark it" phase) and I didn't think much about it afterwards, until very recently, when I decided to reread all the stories in my Favourite Stories list. Searched three times through my list to find it and I realised it wasn't there. I went to add it, when I had the (brilliant) idea to read it, just to see if I still liked it. It reminded me exactly why I like SasuSaku (and sarcasm) so much. That story is amazing, just as all of her other stories (well, the Naruto ones, as far as I know). I really recommend you go read it, and pretty much anything she's written while you're at it._

_Reviews? Please?_


	3. III

_**A/N: **__The Beatles can make any situation better. Trust me._

**T O U R**

**III.**

You know when I said the bus in England was two stories high? Well, this one is too. However, that is not why I'm sitting, flabbergasted, on one of the leather couches, gaping at my surroundings. This bus right here, it _expands_.

Expands, people.

Only when it's stopped, of course, but I mean, really, the sides just open up. Like a spaceship! And it gives us twice the space we originally have (which, really, is a blessing, because a tour bus, no matter how much bigger than a regular bus it is, it's still tiny and cramped on the inside). How is that even possible? I mean, _is_ it possible? Agreed, we do need all the space we can get, with the four boys, their manager, the roadies, the stage technicians, the camera crew (I'm getting back to that point later) and the stylist. Oh, and me.

I've been introduced to everyone rather quickly, so I don't really remember anyone's name. I shook a lot of hands, basically. I do remember the chief camera operator, because he said he'd be following me everywhere. His name is Kakashi, I do believe. His hair struck me. It's all gray and gravity-defying. And he wears an eye patch. Yeah. An eye patch. Like a bloomin' pirate. I like him. One of the roadies shocked me at first, too, with his red cheek tattoos, but then I remembered Naruto's whisker tattoos and realised it wasn't that weird. Well, by rock band standards, anyway.

Maybe Sasuke has a tattoo.

Okay, stupid, no thinking about Sasuke. You know it makes you uneasy.

That's another good thing about the bus. He-who-must-not-be-named is no longer in my line of vision, and given the fact that I'm no longer in his, I'm assuming he's not glaring at me anymore. Which is a relief. Honestly, he was almost making me grow worry-pimples.

If Sasuke's behaviour towards me is hostile, the other boys' reaction to my being here is anything but unwelcoming. They all seem very excited to have me on the bus. Even Neji, whom I know to be rather silent (for all I know of him), has been participating to the general conversations concerning me, making no comment that could make me think he didn't want me on the tour. Naruto's enthusiasm is simply blinding and Lee's excitement mirrors it. The whole crew, without being overly gleeful, took me in as a part of the group without hesitation. Which sort of makes me doubt they weren't aware I was coming.

And, true to his word, Kakashi thrust a camera in my face (operated by a silent boy with sunglasses) and started asking me questions, not saying what he'd use the recordings for. The boys (minus the Glare Wonder, undoubtedly gone sulking in a corner somewhere) gladly jumped in to help me with the answers. The questions were quite simple, really; who I am, where I'm from, how I got here and am I excited about the tour.

That's when it started sinking in. Not the "being away from home" part, but the "singing in front of millions of people" part. I knew I'd have to do that, of course, but the fact that it was happening very soon (I was previously informed the first show was tomorrow night) made it hard to process and sort of scary. It still gives me goose bumps just to think about it.

Now, finally, I have a minute of peace. I'm sitting on a couch, on the second floor. Of course, it's a bus, so there's no real privacy, but most of the others are downstairs, talking (I can hear the buzz of their voices). Two other people are up with me. The roadies and technicians got into a van when we stopped at a gas station, so there's more space for less people.

The two people with me are Ray-Ban (his name's Shino, but Ray-Ban is better), who's re-watching previous recordings on his camera, and the stylist, whose name I can't recall, and who's currently just writing stuff down on a pad. Or is she drawing? I lean over, just to see.

Oh.

Oh my God.

It's me.

No, I mean, it really looks like me. It's a drawing, but one heck of a drawing. The pose is straight and rigid, with my arms and legs extended away from my body, but it's my face, and the proportions are very similar. Plus, my name is scribbled at the top of the page, so that's another clue for my underdeveloped brain. My hair's missing, though. And, uh... I'm sort of lacking clothes.

Is she drawing me naked?

That's just wrong.

"So, Sakura." I jump. I didn't realise she was looking at me.

"Y-yes?" Great. I'm stammering.

"Could you describe to me your personal style?" She asks, her tone poised and pleasant, but her brown eyes piercing.

"Er... My what?" Pull it together, dipshit.

"Your personal style. What you like to wear, your favourite pieces of clothing, the trend you're following, anything."

"Oh... Well, I... I like to wear pants? A-and, er... shirts?"

"What cut?"

"What?"

"The cut, for your pants. Boot leg, flare, skinny, boyfriend, straight... Which one do you like better?"

"Er..." This is not my day for intelligent elocution.

"Okay, stand up." I oblige. She said it with the authority of a sergeant, I'm a little scared.

She starts fumbling with the legs of my pyjama pants, then turns her head up towards me.

"This is a straight cut. It's... straight." She sounds a little like she's mocking me, but drops it and fumbles again. "This is a skinny cut. It's supposed to fit very close to the body." She changes the position of my pant legs again. "This is a flare cut. It basically flares out away from your calves and ankles." Finally, she lets the pants loose. "And this..."

"Is loose?"

"Exactly." Whoo, one point for me! "The basics are not very difficult to remember. Straight is straight, loose is loose, flare flares and skinny is for skinny people."

"Oh." So there's a system? I thought pants were... well, pants.

"You're lucky, you can wear pretty much anything. That's probably why you didn't know what cuts and fits were." She sat back down of the couch. "I'll ask you simpler questions, instead. What are your favourite colours to wear?"

Awesome. I feel like the dumbest idiot on the planet. I wish Ino were here.

Oh, Ino. Why did you abandon me? It feels like I haven't seen her in ages. The one evening I had with her, I spent most of it crying and sleeping. I miss her. I miss her (so smooth, so silky, so blond) hair, her bright blue eyes that just know what's up with me, her mocking laugh, her uncensored comments about people she doesn't like, her amazing (repeat, AMAZING) fashion sense and her way of always making me feel better. Just thinking about her makes me want to cry.

That's one thing I've noticed over the past few hours. I've been crying a lot. For no reason. Well, I had reasons, but they don't usually make me tear up. It's annoying, really. All the insecurity, the useless stress and the jumpiness. And my eyes are permanently puffy. Which is really uncomfortable.

"Alright, now..." the lady looks at her pad. "Ah, right. What's your hair colour?"

"Pink."

"No, I mean, you natural colour."

"It's pink." I try not to sound like a smart-ass, because I get that question a lot and people tend to think it rude when I say "Well, duh. Are you blind?"

She stares at me for a minute.

"Really?"

"Er... Yeah."

"Hm..."

Hm! What's "hm" mean?

"We'll have to change that, then."

"_What_?" Surely she's joking.

"I'm thinking chocolate brown, to bring out your eyes." Whoa, whoa, wait! Brown!

"I'm not changing my hair colour!" My failed attempt at being outraged and scary doesn't impress her.

"It's only temporary, don't worry. Only until you've been seen long enough, so that no one thinks you're copying another artist. In a matter of months, you'll be back to pink. Or another colour, if you want."

"But... Brown?"

"You'd prefer being blond? We can do that too."

Ino, help me.

Right, I think I need to explain something.

I don't... _know_ stuff.

I mean, I don't listen to the radio, I barely watch any TV and the majority of what I read are old classics my dad has in his dusty library in our basement back home. My favourite music consists of McFly and old bands my parents listened to when they were my age. So, really, the only link I have with the "main stream" is school. And Ino. But she usually doesn't bother with me, because I keep spacing out when she rants about who's dating whom. Not that it doesn't interest me. It's just that I have no idea who she's talking about, so I can't really understand what she's going on about.

Thus, when the boys started talking about bands I'd never heard of, I felt extremely out of it. They could've been talking about politics in Azerbaijan for all I knew.

So, right now, I am promising myself this: I will completely submerge myself in pop-culture until I feel confident enough to participate in the conversations normal people have all the time. And I'm gonna start with this magazine I found in Lee's bunk.

Also, I'll stop crying like a baby all the time. It's annoying even to me.

Ugh, stomach hurts.

_**A/N: **__Well, this was long overdue, wasn't it? Not as much as _other stories_ (ahem) but still. And it's not even a good chapter. Ugh. I'm sorry, guys. College is a bitch. Please don't hate me._

_Review?_


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